Enough
by thesecondshelf
Summary: There are good days and there are bad days. An abstract-ish - for me, anyway - one shot that deals with the experience and expression of grief. It goes like this:


Enough

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A/N: Be gentle with me here, please... this is less of a fanfic and more of a therapeutic exercise. I am only sharing because you all have been so good to me, and posting the things I write is the only way I know to show you how much I appreciate you :-). Feel free to contact me here through reviews or PMs, or on tumblr at **thesecondshelf **dot **tumblr **dot** com**.

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There are good days and there are bad days. Well, really, there are good hours and there are bad hours. Sometimes, he feels as if one moment can be euphoric and the next cataclysmic, and there is absolutely no notice of what is coming when and sometimes it's all he can do to make it through the day.

.

.

.

It goes like this:

She's speaking so fast that he can barely hang on her every word (he tries, though, and she swears that's the important part). She pauses to take a breath and inventory, and she asks him for his opinion.

He considers saying _Whatever you think is best_, or _It's up to you_, or even just _I don't know_, but he catches her eye and he realizes in a moment of startling clarity that she isn't making conversation; she genuinely wants to hear what he has to say.

It's a blinding sort of awareness - the kind where it's all he can do to keep his jaw off the floor and his heart in his chest, because something surprisingly wonderful has passed and he was not at all prepared for it.

Hermione Granger, brightest witch of all the ages, truly wants to know how Ron Weasley, the embodiment of mediocrity, thinks and feels.

Really, he should probably stop being surprised by such things. She doesn't think he's mediocre at all, and she has always cared about him, and he knows and believes that now, but it's still somewhat a novelty. He supposes that's a side effect of growing up with 5 (mostly difficult) brothers and a spitfire of a sister -

And that's where it all changes.

Because he grew up with 5 brothers, but he only has four now. Fred is dead. He's in the ground under a stone in the Burrow's back garden, and he honestly believes that to be true no matter how many times George jokes about Fred filling Wormtail's spot in the after-life Marauders.

(George spins tales of Moony, Padfoot, and Prongs teaching Fred how to become an Animagus. His form is always some ridiculous jungle animal that would be completely out of place even in an otherworldly forest with a wolf and a dog and a stag, but the stories make Ginny and Harry and Hermione laugh and in the end, Ron supposes that's really all George is trying to do. Ron tries to laugh along for his brother's sake, but he thinks George knows he's faking it.)

His heart still feels over-large but now it's heavy and it threatens to crush his lungs and squeeze his voicebox. He tries to push through it and answer her question anyway, but she stops him with a delicate hand on the shoulder.

"Are you all right?"

"Yeah," he says, but his voice is thick and his eyes are stinging, so he's sure she won't believe him.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asks, as she moves her hand from his shoulder to his face. She uses her fingers to push his fringe from his eyes, and briefly rests her palm on his cheek.

He takes her hand from his face to hold it in his own, and this time he says "no." He turns the subject back to the one they had left, and the conversation moves on, and his heart feels a little lighter with each word that she speaks.

Sometimes he says "yes," though. Sometimes he tries his best to open up, and explain to her that grief hits him in waves and sometimes those waves eventually carry him back to shore and he gets to sit in the sun, but sometimes they do nothing but pull him further out to sea and he struggles to tread water. And sometimes, on the days when he everything seems to remind him of what he has lost, he feels as if every crest is crashing on him and every current is tugging him under, and he can't remember how to swim.

Only, he never says anything like that, of course. He does his best, but for some reason the words that form in his head never seem to make it to his mouth. He must be doing something right, though, for whenever he tries - really tries - she offers him a part of her heart or mind or body or soul, and she is _so _full of all those things that make someone _alive_ that he can't help but feel a little better.

None of that works, though, on the days when he is _drowning_. It's the little things that set him off, really, but once the trigger is pulled he has no idea how to rein himself in.

Like that day he went to the ministry with his father:

.

.

.

People who didn't even know him kept on smiling and laughing and congratulating him and talking about the past year of his life like it was some grand adventure, and no one grasped that everything wasn't pleasant and funny. His brother was dead, and he really only had luck to thank that he and Harry and Hermione weren't, but all anyone cared about was that Harry Potter had told the press that Ron Weasley was his right hand man (of course, Harry had said nothing of the sort, really, but try to get anyone to believe _that_). He raged quietly until he crossed the threshold of the Burrow; then he stormed up to his room and threw things at the walls until even the ghoul was annoyed.

On that day, the only person he let through his attic bedroom door was his other best friend- and that was only because he was the only person who was brave enough to bother him and rude enough not to knock.

He was still and seething by the time Harry arrived, laying prostrate on his bed staring at the sloped ceiling. From the corner of his eye, Ron watched Harry mirror his position on the camp bed to Ron's left.

"How do you do it?" Ron asked, finally, breaking the silence.

"Same way you do," Harry replied.

They didn't speak again, for they didn't need to. Harry didn't judge, and he didn't advise; He understood. And if Harry understood, perhaps that meant Ron was on the right track after all. For that had been what had bothered him to begin with, hadn't it? Those people at the ministry, they didn't _get _it. But maybe if people like Harry and Hermione did get it, then that was all that mattered. And maybe if even more people - like Ginny and George and his mum and dad and Percy and Charlie and Bill and Fleur and Neville and Luna and Dean and Seamus and the rest of the Army and the Order got it, then maybe he could accept that there were some people out there who would never have a bloody idea what had passed in order to bring the world a little bit of peace.

They lay there for another quarter of an hour before Ron sat up and suggested they go for a fly. Harry agreed quickly and they rose together, Ron's hand lingering on Harry's shoulder a moment longer than it needed to in silent thanks.

And when they opened the door, Ron was not at all surprised to find Hermione sitting on the floor leaning against the opposite wall, waiting for them.

.

.

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There are good days and bad days, but sometimes, he's not sure which are which. And sometimes, he thinks that that's enough.


End file.
